


James

by JP (jpgr1963)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Light BDSM, M/M, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:51:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpgr1963/pseuds/JP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul helps John cope with stress while on tour in 1964. </p><p>Disclaimer: This is pure fiction, nothing in this story is real, just all make believe, no intention of libel, no implied ownership, so chillax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**New Zealand, June 1964**

 

“What’s wrong with him now?” He asked in a hushed voice, as he glanced at John who stood, arms crossed, at the other side of the large suite, leaning against the wall near one of the hotel windows. Fidgety but saying nothing, John was staring out the glass, tapping one leather boot in a furious, erractic rhythm on the hardwood floor.

Ringo had directed his question to George, hoping like hell that Lennon didn’t hear him. But he had to ask – it was driving him mad, these constant and unpredictable mood shifts of his volatile, genius prat of a bandmate. Course it was nothing new, having John sulk about or snarl incessantly while they were on tour. Normally Ringo could ignore it, lose himself in a comic or keep himself distracted with a card game. But today John seemed exceptionally bad tempered, at least to the drummer who felt he might never completely understand John as well as the other two. Not even as well as Brian.

“Dunno, exactly.” George whispered back with one eyebrow cocked, before lifting his chin and turning up the volume. “Eh, Johnny? S’everything all right over there? They’re not climbing up the outside of the building, are they now?”

“What?” Turning around slowly, John grunted, his face twisted in an expression of anxious confusion. Shit, he’d forgotten that Ritch and Geo were even in the room.

“Are you OK? I mean, with the foot tapping and all?”

John froze for a moment, weighing the options swirling about in his mind… whether or not to tell the truth. He usually went with the truth.

“No, I’m not. I’m fucking dreading this publicity horseshit tonight… being paraded out like circus animals for the local nobles’ amusement. Shit, where’s me smokes?”

Sinking back into the sofa, Ringo piped in, offering out his pack of cigarettes to a very agitated Lennon. “Here. And hey, it won’t be that bad, John – make daft small talk, shake hands with smelly rich codgers, photos with the daughter of Lord Mayor of something or whatever. Nothing to be nervous about, luv.”

As John lit the cigarette, both young men noticed how badly his hands were shaking.

“Ta for the smoke, Ritch. I’m not nervous. It’s just… I fucking can’t.”

“C’mon, John. Play along.”

“Sod it, I’m not fucking going.”

The door to the suite swung open without so much as a knock.

“Hello, boys! How are we today? Everyone ready for the party this evening?”

“Piss off, Epstein. And stick your freak show up your queer arse.”

Without another word and barely a slice of a glance, John marched out of the suite to the side bedroom he was sharing; Brian stood there, his initial cheer gone, his tired eyes shut from exasperation.

“Says he’s not going, Brian.” Brian opened his eyes and looked at George, the manager shaking his head in frustration. Epstein was used to John’s antics, but for some reason this refusal of Lennon’s stabbed him sharply. He’d worked hard to arrange an appearance of the band at this posh, high society cocktail party – lots of phone calls, lots of promises made… assurances that they’d be on best behavior, especially that loudmouth Lennon wiseass, as the mayor’s assistant specifically requested. For a split second Brian let himself think that maybe it would be better if John wasn’t there. Fortunately, his thoughts were immediately redirected by the sight of a round, trouser-clad bum strutting past him towards the couch. Hell, that lad had some fine attributes; the firm backside ranked quite high on Brian’s admiration list.

“Alright, Ritch. Geo. Hey, where’s John then?”

“In his room. He’s in a bloody nasty state, so I’d steer clear of him right now, Paul.” Goerge’s low, husky warning… the seriousness of his tone… stopped Paul from reaching down any further for the pack of smokes laying on the coffee table.

“John refuses to attend tonight’s event.” Brian added, peeling his eyes off the vision of that bent over ripe rump, looking at Paul with near desperation, his affected accent cracking at points. “It’s very important, Paul… that John attend the party… and act properly.”

Paul started to say something and then paused, brows slightly furrowed and lost in thought. He chewed his lip, looking over at the bedroom door.

“Right. Well, I’ll just have a chat with him then.”

“Paul…”

Lifting his full eyelids slowly, looking George straight in the eyes, Paul’s mouth curled into a strangely solemn but determined smirk.

“Everything will be fine, Geo. Brian’s right. This is important. John’ll come around.” Paul winked slowly, and left for the bedroom.

“Be careful.”

“I always am, mate.” He tossed Harrison another wink, with a quick nod of the head. “It’s our Johnny boy, right?”

Ringo sighed, feeling decidedly left out of whatever wasn’t being said. 

~~~

“John.” Stepping inside and closing the bedroom door behind him, Paul exhaled his name in a gentle feather of a whisper.

Lennon was seated on the edge of one of the two beds, hands clasped between his thighs, upset and wrecked from nerves. No tie, no socks, no shoes… just a scared, sullen little boy trying to escape to some sense of normality. Paul’s breath caught in his chest at the extraordinary image of his vulnerable, stressed lover.

“John? Hey, I heard what happended.” Paul spoke in that soft, singsong voice he used with John sometimes, as he made his way over to his best friend.

“So, Eppy sent you in here then?

“No, Paul McCartney came of his own free will. What’s this about, luv?”

“S’nothing… Christ, it’s just me being wired and fucking disgusted and needy. I’m gonna throw up if I have to go to this bloody ‘event’ tonight, Paul.”

“Needy? What do you need, luv?”

John studied Paul’s concerned face for any sign of mockery or sarcasm, and found only love.

“You’ll laugh, or just fucking leave me.”

“What? No I won’t. Not ever. C’mon, then. It’s me… talk.”

John’s eyes finally softened, as the name rolled off his tongue, dripping with want.

“James. I want… I need James.”

“James? You mean… really?”

“Yeah, please. It’ll settle me nerves, Paul.”

“Hold on one minute, right?”

Paul jumped up and bolted out of the room, panting a bit when he reached the others still mulling about and chatting in the suite, though now joined by Neil. Ringo was telling a story no doubt, distracting George and Neil with laughter.

 

“Brian, can I talk to you? Alone… over here.”

“Paul? What is it? How’s John?”

“He’s… I need some time. Can you get everyone out of here for a couple of hours? Go down to the bar lounge or something?”

“A couple of hours? Paul, I can’t let them drink at the bar for that long.”

“Well, play some fucking darts or cards then! Christ, Brian. Just get everyone out, all right?”

“Why?”

“John needs something. It’s… well, it’s gonna get noisy.”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean…?”

“For crying out loud. You want bloody details, is that it?”

“No! No, no details. But you’re sure that he’ll agree to this evening’s appearance, Paul? He’ll show up?”

“Yes. He’ll be fine. Now leave!”

As Brian shuffled the three others off to the elevator, Paul remembered that he’d purchased a special gift for John while in Amsterdam. In one of those shops that specialized in exclusive and more expensive toys. He still had it wrapped in his suitcase. He was planning on saving it for when they got home, but under the current, deliciously hot, needy Lennon circumstances…

James. 

Shit, it had been a while.

Paul smiled, took a deep breath and then walked slowly over to the bedroom, collecting himself for the transformation, and turned the door handle.

~~~

“We’re alone.” Paul’s tone was firm and eerily calm, as he loosened his tie.

“We are? How did you… I mean, you’re sure they’ve left?”

Tossing his tie to the floor, Paul strode up to his seated, surprised boyfriend, grabbing him harshly by a fistful of soft hair and jerking John’s head back, before he bent down to kiss his temple as he growled.

“Don’t fucking question me. Understand?” 

“Yes, James.” John replied quietly, in between warm, rapid gulps of air. Nearly immediately, John’s muscles relaxed and surrendered.

“Good boy. You do remember how to behave. I have a gift for you, John. A very special present. Do you want to open it?”

“Yes, I do. Thank you, James.”

“Down on your knees.”

Without hesitation, John lifted his body off the mattress and sank to his knees, hands resting lightly on his thighs, head downcast; Paul fished a box out his baggage on the nearby luggage rack. He walked back with purpose, standing tall over his submissive partner.

“Here it is. You may open it.”

John reached up to take the box, undid the wrapping and then lifted the lid, examining the oddly shaped, bulbous, oblong object nestled carefully in a bed of tissue. It was crafted of polished silver, with a ring attached at one end.

“You’ll have this in you tonight at the cocktail party. Do you like it?”

John smiled, running his pointer finger over the sensuous metal curves.

“Yes, James. It’s exquisite… thank you.”

Paul reached down and captured another fistful of hair, more gently this time.

“John, look at me. Though I won’t be there at the event, you’ll think of me all night, and what I will do to you when you return from this latest publicity circus. I’ll remove the pleasure toy when I’m ready for you… when you’ve proven that you are a well-mannered boy and worth my effort. Is that clear, John?”

His throat clogged with gobs of lust, John could only nod. Paul let slide John’s inappropriate, nonverbal response, just this time… and then grabbed his jaw and kissed him roughly on the lips, driving his tongue into John’s pliant wet mouth, posessing him before pulling back to deliver another command. 

“Stand up and take off all of your clothes.”

“Yes, James.”

“That wasn’t a fucking question, so you don't speak. Strip… now!”

Rising to his feet, mindful to avoid another mistake, John undressed in front of Paul, whose heavy eyes were burning carnal black from excitement. He stared at John’s erection and his swollen, dark ball sac until Paul finally saw a slight blush rise from John’s cheeks and throat.

“Mmm, you are bloody gorgeous. Now go wash up, quickly but thoroughly. You remember how I like you to wash?”

“Yes, James. I remember. May I leave for the loo?”

“You may.”

While John took a quick, steaming hot shower, soaking away weeks of tension with the comfort and thrill of James’ visit, Paul poured himself a drink and sat down in the upholstered hotel armchair and waited, patiently. He understood how much John wanted this, how much his partner needed this time with James. It didn’t happen often, not as often as Paul would have liked in fact, but it was always memorable. Paul chuckled into his glass as he took another sip of Scotch, recalling a few salacious details of James’ previous command performance.

When John returned to the bedroom, freshly washed and naked, with drops of water still clinging to his back and thighs, Paul glanced over and smiled.

“On the bed. You remember my preferred position?”

“How could I fucking forget?” John laughed cheekily, and then realized his audacious stupidity and fell to the floor, forehead and palms resting on the carpet. Paul let him wait there, prostrate and penitent; he said nothing for a few moments and then finally spoke, composed and in control.

“What form of punishment would you prefer, John? My belt or my hand?”

“Your hand, James.”

“On the bed, get into position.”

Watching his lover recline onto the mattress, face down, Paul made a tight fist with his left hand, and then unrolled and stretched his long fingers. He’d have to be careful with the force of his strikes; he needed his hand to be sound enough to play for tomorrow night's concert. Then he slowly intertwined the fingers of both of his hands, and cracked his knuckles. John recognized the signal and shuffled back to lift his hips, knees bent, ass up in the air, legs spread, hands clasped behind his head, and then John inhaled deeply… and waited.

Paul slipped off his freshly pressed suit jacket and placed it squarely on the back of a chair. Quietly, he rolled up his shirtsleeves and exhaled before speaking.

“A dozen or so should warm your insolent arse up nicely. Count, loud enough for me to hear you.” 

“Yes, Jam…” The slap wasn’t as hard as John anticipated, but it still stung like a bitch; he could feel the smooth skin of his lower buttocks heat up and then shiver. 

 

“One.”

After ten solid, open-handed strikes, Paul stepped back to admire his work. John’s creamy bum was now raging pink and slightly swollen from the spanking; perfect, Paul decided, as his licked his lower lip.

“Now get up and get the lube. And your new toy.”

“Yes, James.” With some difficulty, John pried himself off the bed and gathered the items, wincing when out of Paul’s view as he moved about the hotel bedroom. He carefully placed the lube and the silver present on top of the mattress and sank to his knees, cursing silently as the rough heels of his feet pressed against his sore bottom.

“Stand up and bend over the mattress… legs spread.”

As John assumed the position, Paul held up the silver plug and poured a stream of clear lube over its shiny, reflective surface. When a healthy dollup of cool liquid fell in between John’s cheeks, he gasped into the bed covers, too softly for Paul to hear him.

“Do you need me finger you first, John?”

“That’s not necessary, James.”

“Then you're ready?”

“Yes… please, James.”

One smooth, continual push and John was filled, flashes of light momentarily blinding him as he gulped in a swallow of air. Paul twisted the toy slightly, adjusting it to the perfect position, and stepped back again, cocking his head to the side, biting his thumbnail. Finally, he reached out and gently repositioned the pull ring to rest against the inside curve of John’s right cheek.

“There. Stand up.”

As John pushed himself up off the bed, still with his back to Paul, and he felt the toy drop into position, brushing lightly against his prostate as he shifted his weight. “Fucking bloody hell!” John mouthed, with a satisfied smirk and closed his eyes in pleasure.

“Excellent craftmenship, isn’t it?”

“It’s… amazing, James.”

“Only for you, darling boy. Turn around and face me. Do you have anything to say?”

“Thank you, James. May I speak out of turn?”

“You may.”

“There’s something else I need, for the event. If it pleases you.”

Paul hesitated for a moment, staring into John’s pleading brown eyes, trying to guess this additional request before a lightbulb went off in his head. Of course John would need that as well.

“Did you bring it?”

“Yes, James.”

“And the appropriate jumper?”

“Yes, I brought the cashmere turtleneck jumper you gave me, James.”

“Then go fetch it and I’ll put it on you.”

John smiled, lowered his eyes in thanks, and then walked over to his suitcase, flashes of the silver ring sparkling against his still raw, ruddy skin. In no time, he pulled out a small black bag tied shut with a golden, braided cord. When he reached Paul, he dropped to his knees again, moaned silently at the delicious sensation of the tease of the silver plug, and lifted the precious satchel to waiting hands. After gingerly undoing the knot and stretching wide the bag's opening, Paul lifted out the leather collar.

“Still in superb condition. You take care of this, don’t you?”

“I cherish your gift, James.”

“Head back. Good. Now, lower your chin. Perfect.” Paul shut the clasp and turned the small key to lock the collar in place. A rush of security and control rushed through John’s body in waves of warmth and tranquility. 

“Stand up and get dressed.” Paul grabbed his jacket off the chair. “The others will be back soon. I expect stellar behavior from you tonight, John. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, James.”

~~~

When their mates and manager piled back into the hotel room, slightly tipsy and laughing like loons, they found John and Paul together in the main suite. John was strumming random chords on his acoustic, his face relaxed; Paul was humming at the mirror, combing his hair.

“Hey you two! Everything good here?” Ringo blurted out, as George mock punched him in the shoulder.

John’s mouth erupted into a broad smile. “Everything’s perfect.”

 

Catching Paul’s eye as he walked past him, Brian sat down cautiously next to Lennon on the edge of one of the sofas.

“Are you all right… for tonight, John?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, earlier you said…”

“Earlier was earlier, Brian. I was wound up, that’s all. You know how I can get, you git. I’m fine now… better than fine.”

Paul sat down on the arm of the sofa across from John. “I’m popping into our room to grab my tie. Want me to get your jacket while I’m in there, John?”

John lifted his eyes and smiled warmly at his best mate; without realizing what he was doing, John brushed the back of his right hand against the soft fabric of his turtleneck collar.

“Yeah, thanks Paul.”

“The car’s here. Time to go.” Neil shouted at as he put down the receiver. 

Brian got up and followed Paul towards the bedroom door, touching his shoulder lightly.

“He’s much better, isn’t he? Thank you, Paul.”

“Don’t thank me, Brian. I’m just the bass player.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul helps John cope with stress while on tour. **This is a work of fiction.**

**New Zealand, June 1964**

Lennon strolled about the packed ballroom and shook hands with any and every fucker shoved in his face… one after another, all vomiting tedious banter, as wait staff flitted about with trays of tasteless hors d’oeuvres and far too little drink. They’d been here for little more than an hour he suspected as he glanced down at his wristwatch. Given Epstein’s habits, they should be leaving soon.

He made his way across the polished marble floor, moving cautiously, deliberately, as if he were walking on a paper-thin sheet of glass that could easily shatter and then collapse underneath his feet. Every bloody step he took, every friendly slap on the shoulder, every enthusiastic offer to sit for an interview or come meet some grotty politician triggered that teasing reminder… keep flashing that perfect plastic smile and nod politely, Johnny boy. 

Carrying on with these stodgy, proper schoolboy manners at this publicity circus was tiresome, but John understood the stakes. He knew the rule of this sport of theirs: follow explicit orders to the letter and earn more forbidden playtime. During his previous visit, James’ orders had been easy enough: wear the collar present for an entire day of photo shoots and a gig.

Deliciously simple, really. Lennon had earned his reward that night.

But pretending to care about the drivel spewing from a slew of nameless socialites at this drag of a horseshit cocktail party was proving more difficult. So far, John had managed to keep his focus on the prize.

While another fur-clad, blue-haired woman cackled in his ear, his mind wandered off. He fantasized that they were back at the hotel; James was immensely pleased with his stellar behavior and was in a generous mood. Although his experiences had so far been limited, John had learned that surrender was especially satisfying when James was indulgent and attentive.

No fuck ups or daft shenanigans. Not tonight.

Trying to anticipate the potential direction of the next assault, John absentmindedly twiddled with the soft yarn of his jumper.

Off to one side of the hall, holding court for a gaggle of journalists and primped, wealthy ladies, Paul’s eyes scanned the mobbed room frequently waiting to catch a glimpse of his partner through the crowd.

James might not be there, but he was watching.

Then the sea of bodies parted, and Paul finally got a good, long look at John. He was leaning against the wall over by the corner, arms crossed, grinning respectfully at some babbling codger, while drops of Lennon charm effortlessly dripped off his smile. John’s anxious, impatient temper had been temporarily chokered and corked; the cheeky bastard seemed to be acting both courteous and calm. McCartney looked down at his own interlaced, fidgety fingers and smirked. This was good.

As he looked to the left, Paul also noticed Brian, strutting about fit in his tuxedo, chatting with a group of suits by the bar, looking giddy proud and celebrating with one too many brandies. No embarrassing Lennon thunder down under this night. Glasses clinked, people laughed, and everyone was happy.

Everything was under control.

Without warning, an anonymous hand pressed firmly against John’s back, knocking him ever so slightly off kilter, forcing him to shift his hips to stay balanced; Lennon caught his breath and then sighed from the rush of heat. Although he was already uncomfortably warm in the polo jumper, he wrapped himself tighter in his loose, oilskin jacket. The shiny coat had been working overtime to hide the erection that was tenting his suit trousers, that was pulsing against the cotton of his Y-fronts, for most of this daft party.

From over his shoulder, he heard, “G’dday, John. Delighted that you could join us. Still enjoying your time here in Auckland?”

“Who the fuck is that?” John turned to look, feeling the stitched edge of the leather strap hidden under his polo collar press into the side of his neck.

Bloody hell… Even without his specs, John quickly recognized the attractive blond bloke who had tried to pull him at yesterday’s bleeding PR event. Nice green eyes and strong hands, though the Kiwi’s flirting was a bit too blatant for John’s taste. What was the tart’s name again? Gary? Or Greg? Fuck, he couldn’t be bothered to remember.

“Just great. Ta.” John’s frustrated growl sweetened as the syllables passed through his clenched teeth. 

Shit, James’ gift was exquisitely cruel. John turned away and shuffled his feet again, this time on purpose, and grinned from ear to ear at the teasing, burning sensation stretching his bum, preparing him for whatever mischief James had planned for later that night.

The man was taken aback by John’s broad smile; the blond politician certainly hadn’t expected such a bright greeting. Did John actually remember him? Cocking his head in a moment of confusion, the New Zealander concluded that he did in fact have a chance at shagging the handsome English musician. He flashed back his most seductive leer… shit, he would have drooled if his mouth hadn’t been so dry. After casually brushing his palm across John’s broad back muscles one more time, he moved his long fingers to rest in John’s right shoulder, squeezing him through the jacket every so often.

A few more minutes of meaningless prattle went on before Craig tossed a perfunctory farewell nod to the grey-haired stranger talking John’s ear off, and let his hand drop, curling his fingers around John’s bicep, pulling him away from the conversation. Shit. Whenever John moved that quickly, the bulbous toy shifted, pushing against his sensitive flesh; he instinctively flinched as a jolt of pleasure ripped through his groin.

“You must be parched. Let’s fetch you a drink, shall we.” Craig motioned for a waiter, who practically ran over to the man in charge of this formal reception. “Here we are. Choice scotch. Cheers!”

Accepting the glass, John smiled, somewhat strained but politely. It was well past fucking bloody time he was offered a drink.

“Cheers.” 

Before John could finish his first swallow, Craig pulled out a shiny metal container from his jacket pocket, and effortlessly flipped it open with a press of his thumb. “Cigarette?”

“Ta.” As Lennon puckered his lips around the filter of the fag, a match sparked up, mere inches from his chin. With a deep inhale, John nodded in appreciation, and then blew the smoke out through his nostrils with a grateful twinkle in his eye. Craig was mesmerized; he beamed with confidence and moved closer. 

“Have you had any chance to explore the city?” Fucking hell. The slag was going full tilt ponce and coquettish on him now.

“No. They don’t let us out of the hotel, ya know.” 

“That’s dreadful, John. Treating you as if you were a caged animal. It’s inhumane.”

“Eppy shackles me in chains.” John waggled his eyebrows, winked and then laughed softly, “I get fed when I’m a good boy.” Craig’s thirty-year-old knees buckled and bent with lust. Shit, the young, gruff Englishman was incredibly beautiful…exactly Craig’s type. Giggling, he playfully mock-punched John in the arm.

“And when you’re a bad boy? What then?” 

From a distance, Paul monitored the unfolding conversation dance between John and some unknown prat… the too familiar way the bloke was standing, the presumptuous way he was touching John’s body. As Paul continued to entertain his enthralled group with stories and jokes, McCartney’s wide eyes darted over every few seconds to spy on them. After witnessing one to many intimate touches and flirty smiles, a nauseous ache of possessiveness boiled over in his gut… he had to get up. Time to take charge of the situation. Time to remind John about the rules, although he hadn’t actually broken any rules. Not yet. Paul excused himself, and snaked his way slowly through the throng.

“How clever you are!” Craig laughed with tears and coughs at another dry Lennon quip, wrapping his arm around John’s shoulders. “Tad tiresome though, this stuffy reception. Let me ring for my car and take you out on the town for a spell. I know the perfect place, a private gentlemen’s’ club… very exclusive. You won’t be bothered there. We can relax and have a few more drinks and laughs. What do you say, John?”

Disinterested and bloody well fixated on the warmed plug opening his bum and caressing his prostate, John wanted to break off this pointless yammering with callous, barbed insults, but then he remembered James' rule. No fuck ups, Lennon. So instead, he dropped his smile and donned a naïve, baffled expression. 

“What about the others?” There was no fucking way he was going anywhere with this queen… certainly not with the prospect of James within reach.

“Others? You mean your companions, the other Beatles? I haven’t talked to them all night. Where are they?”

Blind, John squinted and surveyed the room, looking for the distinct, fuzzy shape of Paul somewhere. No fucking luck. Where was Paul when he needed him? Or bloody Brian, for that matter?

Then he felt it – two nimble fingers skipping up the hollow of his lower back, tickling his spine through the back of his coat. Paul peered over John’s left shoulder and shot the stranger his beautiful death glare.

“All right, fellas. Making new friends, Johnny?” Anyone else would have thought that Paul was purring, but John recognized McCartney’s distinctly bitchy snarl; his voice was low, aggressive and on the verge of becoming James. John’s body stiffened before yielding, leaning back just enough to lightly brush against Paul’s chest. Despite his green haze of jealousy, Paul registered John’s instantly submissive posture. That was good.

“The mayor’s assistant here wants us to go out clubbing with him. Right, Greg?” 

“Does he then?” No mistaking the daggers in those heavy-lidded, dark eyes that time.

“G’dday, Paul. Good to see you again. Craig Baker. We met yesterday, briefly.” Baker offered out his hand, but Paul didn’t reciprocate. He wasn’t feeling all that fucking diplomatic at the moment.

“Um, right. So what’s this about clubbing?”

“Not clubbing, not exactly. I was telling John about a private drinking establishment here in Auckland. I’m a longtime member, on the board in fact. It’s quite posh and exclusive. Sophisticated.”

After hearing the feeble twat’s shameless boasts, Paul relaxed and his eyes softened. There was no bloody possibility that John was keen on this sad pillow biter. He bit his lip and chuckled. “S’very kind of you, Mr. Baker. But… well, John and me aren’t posh or sophisticated. Just a couple of dockside scruffs… unschooled and all that.”

Trying not to interfere with Paul’s game, John stayed quiet and simply pressed his lips together, nodding like an idiot.

“Besides, we’ve a song to finish tonight. Pay the bills, you know.”

“Well, of course. I understand, Paul.”

“But you know, Mr. Baker… our manager, Brian Epstein? He fancies posh clubs. Doesn’t he, John?” 

“So do George and Ringo,” John was quick to add. Out of view, Paul ran his right palm over the curve of John’s bum, affectionately tapping the sensitive underside with approval.

Suddenly Paul lowered his volume and cooed, “I’ve a gear idea. Why don’t you spot all of our mates pints at your sophisticated pub club, Mr. Baker? They’ll be chuffed at your generous invite. Me and John will join you later, when we’re finished writing.” Temporarily struck dumb by the close up view of Paul’s luscious mouth moving and the sound of his melodic voice, Craig took a deep breath and exhaled but still said nothing.

“Did ya hear me, Mr. Baker? We’ll pop by your posh club later for a drink. I know I’ll be bloody thirsty.”

Puzzled and dazed at this unexpected turn of events, Craig stared at John, looking at his face for some reassuring sign or expression.

Lennon fucking ignored the sorry bore; with a sly smirk, John turned to Paul.

“I expect I’ll be bone-dry by then as well.”

 

**Amsterdam, 1964 (about a fortnight earlier)**

 

It was raining buckets sideways; no one dared venture out into the streets this early on a soaked and dreary Sunday morning… no one except randy Paul McCartney and his hapless, bleary-eyed chaperone. After springing out of his hotel bed at the crack of dawn, relentless Paul finally cajoled his manager to take him out shopping in this tempest before they left town for the next leg of the tour.

Just as Epstein had directed, the dark sedan slowed down as they approached the otherwise non-descript, three-story red house, pulling over to the side to park by the canal. Noticeably flushed with beads of sweat dotting his forehead, Brian was about to open the car door before he fumbled with the unfamiliar handle and hesitated, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

“I’m not sure this is wise, Paul.”

“You told me this was a discreet, exclusive place. Said that you’ve been here before, know the owner. What’s the matter now, Brian?” With his arms and legs crossed, Paul sat there, cloaked in his annoyed, uppity expression, waiting for Brian to weaken and crack and quit.

“It just doesn’t seem a prudent purchase while we’re on tour, and in a foreign country no less.”

“Christ, Brian. It’s bloody Amsterdam. And we’re already here. C’mon then… get out! Lurking in front of a sex shop in the back of a black limousine isn’t all that prudent either, is it?” 

Before they got within a yard of the entrance, their faces obscured by the dark dome of the large brolly, the door flew open, and a plain-looking, ruddy man urgently waved them inside. As the proprietor grumbled a string of Dutch and took their coats, Paul looked around the establishment, surprised to see that the store was decorated like a posh bint’s front parlor. The décor looked antique, out of another time.

“Please… make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you gentlemen a coffee? If you’d prefer, you’re welcome to browse the display room while you wait.” He was looking straight at Brian. “You remember where it is, don’t you?” 

“Yes, I do. Coffee would be super. Thank you, Mr. Dekker. And my gratitude again for being available to see us on such short notice.” Even though the simple conversation was masked by a smoke screen of formality, Paul sensed that Brian was unnerved and self-conscious. The squat toy dealer, on the other hand, didn’t seem notice or give a damn.

“I am a simple merchant. I can not make a profit if I do not accommodate my customers’ schedules.”

After the shop owner left the front room, presumably in the direction of the kitchen, Paul turned to Brian.

“So, c’mon then. Let’s see this special room, Brian.” Paul’s crinkled eyes sparkled like a young child’s in a sweet shop.

A poorly lit corridor off the parlor led to a massive, heavy door at the far end of the narrow hall. Brian turned the door handle, pushed it open and felt around for the light switch. With a soft click, overhead pendant lamps lit up the cavernous space. McCartney, on tippy toes, leaned forward and peered in.

“Shit.”

“I told you it was impressive.”

“I know, but…”

A series of long wooden tables, arranged neatly in three rows, filled the center of the large room, while ornate porcelain pegs on three of the walls displayed even more dangly wares. Paul and Brian meandered about, inspecting the merchandise carefully showcased in velvet-lined boxes on the tables, glancing up every so often to look at the straps and chains and other intimidating objects hung from the walls.

Intrigued by a complicated, large net contraption suspended from one of the pegs, Paul wandered over for a closer inspection. As he untwisted a few straps to try to determine what the fuck it was used for, McCartney heard Brian mumble something incoherent over on the other side of the room.

Paul asked, without turning around, “What are you on about there, Brian?”

“Oh, it’s not important. I was just noticing that Dekker now has my size in stock.”

“What?” Paul turned around to see Brian facing him, wearing a black, leather hooded mask, complete with zippers. The mouth zipper was pulled open; the sight of Brian’s pink tongue peeping through the toothed hole was unsettling as hell. Paul slowly shook his head and broke into a grin.

“It suits you, that does. You should wear that to your next meeting with the EMI codgers. Might help you negotiate a better royalty deal, eh?”

Brian peeled off the hood with some effort and quickly patted down his ruffled hair with his fingers. Sporting a coy smile, he joked, “Still too snug though.”

“You need a head shrinker.”

Leaving behind the curious swing apparatus, still utterly confused as to its purpose, Paul walked over to a table and gingerly picked up a thin, skewer-like metal rod, turning it over in his hand. “Christ, what the hell is this for?”

Brian raised an eyebrow and whispered, “I’m not sure you want to know.”

Suddenly Dekker’s raucous belly laugh filled the room, causing Paul to drop the instrument. It made a clinking sound as it bounced off the tiles. In a panic, Paul squatted and groped around, trying to find it on the floor.

“Here we are. Don’t bother with that, young man. Have some coffee. Now, what can I help you find?”

Panting, McCartney stood up and accepted the steaming cup, his hands shaking… more from excitement than nerves. “Well, I…”

“Don’t be shy. You are going to make a purchase, yes?”

“Oh, yes.” Paul looked around the room quickly, chewing on his lip. “Just not sure exactly what yet.”

“Is it for you? Would you prefer something for a man’s pleasure, or for a girl? Not that it really matters, but it might help me select something exceptional for you to consider.”

“S’for me. My girlfriend fancies... um, sometimes she prefers to be… well, you know… assertive. Yes, something special, I think.”

Dekker laughed again, and winked at Brian.

“He’s adorable, isn’t he? Your girlfriend is a lucky lady, young man. Come!” Dekker wound his way slowly through the rows of display tables, gesturing with a showman’s flare, Paul following closely on his heels. The owner stopped every couple of feet and explained what certain items were and how they could be used.

“You’re familiar with cock rings, yes?” From across the room, fiddling with a purple feather tickler hanging from a hook, Brian froze and blushed; Paul just grinned. Finally, he fucking recognized something.

“Yeah, I know what they are. We saw them in shops back in Hamburg.” 

Paul recalled that time he and John visited a sex shop on the Reeperbahn when they were fresh off the boat and little more than kids, snickering and mucking about with dildos and crotchless knickers before they got tossed out on their ears.

“But what’s this, um… attachment thingy, Mr. Dekker?”

Like a depraved, frothing headmaster, Dekker lectured in detail on how the strap and rod worked and gushed over the agonizing pleasures the device brought for wearer. Even Brian was intrigued, moving closer to eavesdrop on the tutorial.

Paul mouth hung open, gobsmacked. He tried to picture John bound in that wicked device; pinkish-red splotches quickly covered his pale neck. “Bloody hell.” 

“No! No blood. If there is blood, you are using it incorrectly. Understand?” Paul nodded, hard, and looked at Brian for reassurance. Dekker then reached over with his pudgy hand and lifted up a small cream-colored bottle resting nearby. “This particular lubricant can provide an extra thrill for this type of play. It’s imported and quite expensive.” Brian was now fully engaged in the demonstration, peeking over Dekker’s shoulder and bobbing up and down in his dress shoes.

“Oh yes, that lotion is marvelous. Yes, yes! Get that!” 

Paul turned to look at Epstein, his eyes squinting in amused disbelief at Brian’s unabashed enthusiasm. Then Dekker went on to explain precisely how the lotion had to be administered. Done wrong, the powerful concoction could cause unwarranted discomfort. Paul’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he listened, and Dekker was genuinely delighted with how attentive a pupil he had in this pretty customer. He’d silently hoped the boy would ring again and become a regular client.

Paul took a moment to process everything he’d learned, cleared his throat and began pointing. “OK, then. I s’ppose that I’ll take that ring with the strap accessory and a bottle of that… whatever it is. But I’m actually looking for something else as well. Something unique.”

“Speak up, lad. I’m not a mind reader.”

Although he wasn’t exactly sure what to call it, Paul described the other item that he needed, and was soon amazed by Dekker’s vast selection of plugs in all shapes, sizes and materials. After going back and forth for far too long, leaning his arm on the display table and pruning the thumb pad of his other hand with mindless gnawing, Paul finally selected the silver toy. 

“Excellent choice! It’s crafted in Germany. Very high quality. Is there something else? A flogger or cane or…”

Paul pondered the question for a moment. Flog John’s sweet bum with braided leather straps? He did seem to enjoy a proper spanking, but whipping was an altogether different cup of tea. Another day, perhaps. Patience… one step at a time, McCartney.

“No, that’s all I need. Oh, wait! There’s one more thing.” Paul grabbed another item off the table behind him, and Dekker smiled with approval. That would certainly come in handy given the boy’s preferences. Dekker grunted with satisfaction at the lucrative sale. This naughty, raven-haired Adonis was scrumptiously darling; what a wasteful shame that the boy didn’t seem to be the type to go both ways.

With Paul’s selections finalized, money was exchanged in the parlor and shopkeeper wrapped up the purchases, thanking the two men as they left to scurry out to the car. The streets were still empty and it was still pouring; Paul tucked the small bag under his coat and slid into the back seat next to Brian.

“Pleased?”

“Yes, very. Thanks, Brian.” 

“You’re welcome, Paul. And you know, Dekker was right. Miss Asher is a very fortunate young lady.”

Paul snorted, clutching his pouch of newly bought shiny presents like an elf sprite on Christmas morning.

“Ha! I’m the jammy bastard, Brian. Trust me.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The saga of James and the silver plug continues...
> 
> **This is a work of fiction.**

**New Zealand, June 1964**

 

Without a word spoken between them during the lift ride up to the top floor, John entered the hotel suite first, followed by McCartney, who paused to close and lock the door behind them. Brian and Neil also had keys to the suite and could easily unlock it whenever their companions decide to leave Baker’s snobby, no doubt dull club. Paul just prayed that he’d have enough time to finish John off properly before the others came back.

Lennon hadn’t a moment’s chance to settle in or even take his jacket off, when Paul came up from behind and whispered in his ear.

“You need more, don’t you?”

As he asked the question, Paul’s voice dropped to a low, hoarse, commanding tone. He was no longer on the verge of becoming James; somewhere between the boarding the lift and walking through the suite door, he had begun to fall over the edge.

“Hell, yes.” Shit, Lennon’s entire body had been buzzing like mad with anticipation since long before they’d even left for the event. He must have been well behaved at the bash, since James was still here and seemed keen on continuing their game.

Without warning, John’s head snapped back; Paul had grabbed a fistful of his soft, silky hair and pulled so hard that his neck arched backwards over Paul’s left shoulder, his chin jutting up toward the ceiling and lips slightly parted. 

“Good, and don’t forget your fucking manners. Shit, you’re such a beautiful, filthy little tart, aren’t you?” Paul kissed John on the temple and cheekbone, over and over, as he ran his other hand under the shiny coat and down John’s chest to the top of his trouser waistband. “Attracting all the lads’ attentions at posh parties.”

Making quick work of the brass belt buckle and waistband button, Paul slowly unzipped John’s fly and shoved the light wool fabric down over his hips, past his thick thighs, until it finally pooled loosely around his ankles on the floor.

They didn’t have much time to waste. McCartney stepped back and growled, “Into position.”

Hidden from Paul, John’s expression softened in a mixture of joy and relief. Gracefully, he dropped to his bare knees and pressed his forehead down against the rough fibers of the main room carpet, his fingers interlaced behind his head, his bum high up in the air. He could barely breathe and his skull was pounding with the drumbeat of his own racing pulse.

Paul threw the lower flap of the oilskin jacket up and over John’s head, shrouding him in darkness. John waited, motionless and silent. Then, a gasp of air exploded from his lungs when a pair of strong hands ripped apart the thin cloth of his white cotton pants, tearing open a wide slit up the back of his Y-fronts. 

Pausing to catch his breath, his own heart thumping wildly in his chest, Paul lit a smoke to calm down and raked his fingers through his hair. He had to stay focused… in control.

But fuck, there it was… the silver pull ring pressed against John’s right cheek. He smiled at the mental image of John sauntering about that cocktail party, handsome and charming as ever, with James’ wicked plaything stuffed up inside of him the entire time.

They stayed like that, John bent over and prone in submission on the floor, Paul balanced on his knees behind him and relaxing casually with a fag, rubbing his palm every so often over the curves of John’s exposed, plugged bum. At last, McCartney leaned over and stubbed the spent cigarette out in the ashtray on the sofa table. He started to playfully toy with the metal ring, flipping the silver circle back and forth with hard flicks of his fingers for a few moments. The rhythmic vibrations traveled up the metal straight to John’s delicate, over-stimulated prostate; Lennon moaned as quietly as he could into the rug.

Then it happened, as John already dreaded but expected would happen. Paul hooked his left index finger firmly through the solid silver loop, and roughly yanked the plug out in one harsh, continuous motion. 

John’s eyes watered, as he cried, “Fu-u-u-ck!” He tried in vain to bury his pitiful yelp into the thick carpet.

Paul stood up and looked down on his half-covered, crouching partner, the silver toy in his fingers swinging to and fro like a pendulum. He pressed the sharp edge of the heel of his black boot against the tender skin of John’s bottom. “Did you say something, sweetheart? I don’t recall asking you a question.”

“M’sorry, James… so fucking sorry. Don’t leave, please.”

“Here, take your toy! I’m not going anywhere. Now go wash up and get that dirty bum dummy of yours squeaky clean. I want you undressed and waiting for me on the bed.”

Lifting the coat off his head, John grabbed the plug, rose up and started to move towards their shared bedroom, when Paul suddenly interrupted.

“Do you remember where I pack the restraints?”

“Yes, James,” John replied with a tense grin, his back to Paul. Christ, his throbbing bum hole was stretched wide open from hours of enduring that large, thick plug… and they’d barely started the game.

“Fetch them from my bag and have everything out and ready for me. Go on! I need a drink.”

“Can I get…?”

“If I’d wanted you to serve me, I would have told you to bloody serve me. You seem a bit rusty on the rules, John. I expect better.”

Without another sound, John disappeared into the side bedroom and headed straight for the loo. Like a crazed loon, he frantically tore off his jacket and polo jumper, socks, shoes and tattered underpants, tossing them all in a messy heap on the floor by the toilet. After turning on the shower spray, he froze when he caught a glimpse of himself in the large vanity mirror already fogging up from the steam.

The collar. James hadn’t given him permission to take it off, but he didn’t want the expensive leather get ruined. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the small key that James must have deliberately left out in the open by the sink. His hands shaking, he reached up and unlocked the clasp; the strap fell from his neck into his waiting open hand. With the plug out and the collar off, staring at himself in the mirror again, he felt truly, brutally naked - alone and exposed and lost. It was fucking irrational.

“Why do you need this? What the fuck’s bloody wrong with you?”

“Everything,” his blurred reflection snapped back without mercy. Shit, Paul understood how fucked up he was, and still loved him. Paul never asked for an explanation or a reason for his vile cravings. Besides, submission wasn’t something he did every day. John wouldn’t ask for James next week, and maybe not for another year or more. Perhaps, he’d never need him again, though he doubted that. He certainly needed him now, he needed this now, and he couldn’t explain the reasons why. Why now? He had to trust Paul… trust James. Carefully, John placed his precious collar on the polished counter and stepped into the hot shower, closed his eyes and raised his face to the soothing, wet stream.

When he heard the whooshing rush of the shower turn on, Paul walked over to the console that they had turned into a temporary bar and poured himself a healthy glass of Brian’s prized Reserve port, leaning his round rump back against the table.

He shut his eyes and let the sweet, viscous wine drip down the back of his throat, as he remembered exactly when and where and why James was ever born. Shit, he’d understood what fueled John’s irrepressible need for James ever since the very first time it happened back in Hamburg. It hadn’t been that long after Stu’s death. Overcome with aggression, anxiety and unbearable grief, John learned on that warm May night that surrendering all shred of control and submitting to total domination helped him regain some semblance of sanity and composure afterwards… in private, behind closed doors, safely with James.

Only with James; at least that was what Paul needed to believe. There had been that bossy transvestite hooker that hung about waiting for John after their shows at the Star Club, but Paul would never be sure what had happened between them. John refused to talk about her. So, Paul opted for an absolute truth, and rarely waivered: John only submitted to James.

Shit, John bloody created James.

He took another swallow of port, and his nerves were soon calmed by another rush of smooth, sugary warmth. McCartney glanced at the partly open bedroom door, spying his suitcase on the luggage rack.

As insurance, Paul had experimented with all of Dekker’s wares on himself first, to be sure he knew how to put them on, how hard he should tighten the ring and buckle the snaps. He’d tested the dear, imported lotion on his own prick as well, coating his shaft with the liquid after he’d finished shaving in the loo one day. Thank fucking hell he was alone and was close by a faucet, he snorted; he’d have never guessed that the odorless, opaque lubricant he’d purchased back in Amsterdam could be that powerful after only a couple of minutes, that potentially dangerous. His body involuntarily shivered at the still vivid memory. Dekker had been right – the sensation had stayed with him for hours. He even had to play a fucking show with his todger tingling uncontrollably in his trousers. There was a lot of head shaking and bopping about on stage that night!

After patting himself dry with a fluffy hotel towel, John immediately wrapped his treasured leather collar round his neck, securing the clasp with a click of the small key. Feeling well scrubbed and prepared, he realized how much he loved that James now gave him this shower time to turn off his mind and relax into his senses. It hadn’t been that way the first time James had taken control and fucked him in that grotty room. This was better.

He strolled starkers into the bedroom, heading straight for Paul’s luggage. There was a zippered compartment in the bottom that concealed James’ tools. He pulled them out carefully, one by one, stopping to smell the earthy cowhide scent mixed with faint traces of sweat, before spreading them out in a row on the bed covers: two pairs of sturdy leather cuffs with long, braided cords and a thick but soft black strip of cloth. He enjoyed the restraints; they were well made and didn’t clip or gouge his skin, but John fucking relished the blindfold. It cut off reality, allowing him to completely escape into their fantasy play. Finally he gingerly placed the cleaned silver toy and a bottle of lubricant on the mattress next to the other equipment. Unsure of what position James would prefer, John decided it was safest to just stretch out on his back, his hands clasped behind his head. He waited, staring up at the ceiling, naked and freshly washed and compliant.

Slowly the door opened.

“You behaved well at the publicity event, luv. I’m proud of you.” 

Still dressed in his dark suit, dress shirt and tie, Paul locked the door and took a long swig of ice water; he placed the half-filled glass tumbler on the side table before returning to stand at the foot of the bed. John’s narrowed, hungry eyes never left him; he hadn’t been asked a question, so he smiled his thanks back silently. Paul looked down at John’s twitching cock, happy that he’d thought to bring the ice; John was already hard.

“Strap your cuffs on for me, good and tight then.” Despite his calm voice, Paul’s full, moist lower lip quivered with lust. He fucking loved this part.

He watched with heavy, dark eyes as John bound the restraints around his ankles and wrists, pulling on the leather with his teeth to get the bindings extra snug. When John bent down to begin tying the cords to the footboard frame, Paul stopped him by grabbing his jaw and lifting his face with a hard jerk.

“Not yet, dove. Roll over.”

John turned over without a word, which caused the loose braided bindings to stretch across and rest on top of the pale skin of his calves and shoulders. After briefly drinking in the delicious pattern of flesh, leather and rope, Paul picked up the silver plug and covered it in transparent streams of lube.

“Spread for me.” 

Obedient and trusting, John reached his arms back, drew his knees up and grabbed a handful of both cheeks, pulling them apart to offer up his tender swollen opening. After circling a lubed finger pad over the tight, ruddy ring of muscle, Paul gently inserted the toy, pressing it against the band of resistance until he finally felt John’s body surrender and draw it in. He carefully pushed with slight twists as far as it would go, as far as it took to hear John grunt quietly into the pillow. With a hard, sharp slap to John’s stuffed, creamy bum, James moved back and surveyed his work. Fucking delicious – there was the shiny pull ring, poised and set for the perfect moment.

“Yes, very pleased. All right then, tie the three cords now. I want those knots very tight, sweetheart. Don’t fucking disappoint me.”

Lighting another smoke, Paul sat down in a formal, upholstered wingchair, crossed his legs and watched… tickled at how determined John worked on fixing his bindings, especially when his partner stuck his pink tongue out in concentration. When John was finished fastening his ankles and his left wrist to the bed frame, he stopped moving and waited; James would have to secure the last cord that was attached to his right wrist cuff.

Fuck, he wouldn’t be able to move a muscle after that, and this spread-eagle position made him more vulnerable than he’d ever been in his life. He was confused and bloody excited. James had never flogged him, not yet… but what else could the master do to his body and his mind when he was tied up this taut, on his back no less? Lennon closed his eyes and swallowed, his nerves bristling at the possibility of a whipping.

~~~~

Baker’s gentlemen’s club was all the way on the other fucking side of the city, miles from their hotel. All five hapless, tired Liverpudlians piled out of the car that had followed Craig’s Porsche to the place, ducking in through the front vestibule before anyone recognized them. Well, no one would probably recognize Neil or Mal, but they ran quickly up the entrance steps anyroad.

Once inside, it seemed a much smaller establishment than Brian had expected… a dozen or so round walnut tables with plush wood and leather chairs, a few standing lamps, bookcases packed to the brim with never read volumes, and an enormous, roaring fireplace. Portraits of long-dead, bearded men decorated the wall above the bar. It smelled of pipe tobacco and expensive liquor and old money.

“What the ‘ell are we doing ‘ere?” George questioned, looking up at the ornate plaster ceiling.

“Making new friends, mate! Posh friends.” Ringo cheerfully threw back.

“Oi, Ritch!” Then George realized how loud he was talking, even though Ringo was less than an arm’s length away, and lowered his voice. “There’s only blokes ‘ere.”

“I’m sure the birds will show up, son. Maybe they’re all in the loo, fixing their lipstick, eh?”

“Cor, I fuckin’ hope so. Some of these tottering codgers are bloody old… right decrepit. Think they even know who we are?”

“Lads! Lads, come here. Come here! I’d like you to meet Mr. Stanton. Brad’s a long time member of our little group.” George, Ringo and Brian walked over, nodded and shook hands politely.

“Brad, these two dapper young men are part of that pop music group from England. Aren’t they just gorgeous? And this is Mr., um… what was it again?”

“Epstein. Brian Epstein.”

“Right, right! Mr. Ep-stein is their handler.” Craig lowered his voice and leaned over to Stanton. “I think he’s a Jew.”

“I’m the group’s manager, actually, Mr. Baker. And yes, I am Jewish.” Brian tried to hide his disgust with these pretentious, prejudiced pricks, but he expression revealed it, if you knew him. George noticed. So did Ringo. Seemed even old closeted queers could be rude, coarse bastards; intolerance was a ubiquitous, insidious affliction. 

“Smashing! You’ve brought us handsome popular musicians, Craig? And a Jewish boy handler? You’ve done well, Baker! We’ve never enjoyed the company of such shaggy, attractive lads and their, um… special friends. It’s all so marvelously out of the ordinary! Exotic, you know. The other board members will be impressed. You’ve sealed my vote for grand high master!”

“What sorta fuckin’ club is this?” George whispered into Ringo’s ear.

“One without birds or Jews, I reckon.”

“Bloody gear.” George deadpanned with a sneer. 

As Craig and Brad continued to compliment each another with excessive, shameful fawning, Brian wrapped his arms around his two boys and joked in a low voice, “Shall we leave these pompous bigots to their swine trough and find the brandy, lads?”

"Yeah, good idea Brian. Oi, where are Paul and John then? Didn't McCartney say they'd be here soon?" Ringo wondered out loud.

"Pulling fit birds at a real fucking club, selfish wankers." Both Brian and Ringo snorted at George's impatient, envious growl. 

~~~~

After Paul finished securing the last rope to the steel frame, he bent down and softly kissed John on the lips.

“Now lift up your head.”

John raised his head as high as he could, before losing his blurry sight to complete darkness. The blindfold was wrapped tight; he could feel James’ finishing the knot just over his right temple. Then, the hotel bedroom became eerily still and quiet. As his mind disconnected from reality, from screaming fans and camera flashes and absurd expectations, John focused on the sound of his own breathing, and the whirling swoosh of blood rushing through his eardrums. He couldn’t move; he couldn’t see.

After placing his pouch of newly purchased surprises on the floor by his feet, Paul fished out a large ice cube from his water glass with his long fingers and sucked on it quietly until its surface became extra smooth; John felt the mattress dip as his partner sat on the bed facing him, his trouser fabric brushing up against John’s naked thigh. When Paul pressed the freezing cube against the hot skin of John’s swollen head, running it over the slit of his cock, John gasped in surprise, biting his lip until it bled, desperately trying not to shout.

“I want you to go soft, baby. That’s right. Settle down for me.”

It took a few moments, but John went flaccid, his breath caught in his chest at the intense, painful sting of the freezing cube on his shrinking prick. Quickly, Paul carefully cupped John’s squishy balls and gently squeezed them one at a time through the metal ring. Then he guided his lax, limp cock through the same hole, and adjusted the cock ring securely in position.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?” John only heard the sound of the ice cube being dropped back in the glass. Shit, he couldn’t speak yet; he could barely fucking nod.

“The ring doesn’t hurt, does it? It shouldn’t hurt, luv.”

“No.” John gasped for another gulp of air. “No, James. D-doesn’t… doesn’t…. hurt.”

“Good. We’re just getting started. Breathe deep through your mouth... while you can.”

“Thank… you, James.” Paul smirked and ignored his delirious lover’s mistake. Then he unraveled the ring’s leather attachment and positioned it as Dekker had explained. It was a wide strap, with silver studs, a short rod and metal fasteners. He snapped it into place, gently cinching the top of John’s ball sac, checking to be sure he wasn’t pinched underneath the leather. Paul sat back and admired the contrast of steel and leather firmly disciplining his lover’s girdled groin.

“Fucking exquisite, pet.”

After quickly dancing the tip of his wet tongue over John’s soft prick, Paul stretched out alongside on the bed, kicked off his dress shoes and propped himself up on his elbow. Leisurely, he let his eyes wander over his lover’s bound and readied body; the muscles of John’s flat abdomen shivered in random spasms as he tried to control his erratic breathing. Paul watched with a smirk as the gorgeous lad’s collared cock started to jerk and stiffen back to life. Teasingly, he ran his fingertip lightly along the sensitive, pale underside of John's bound left arm and licked his lips in anticipation.


	4. Chapter 4

**New Zealand, 1964**

"Well, hello there young man.”

George turned around, immediately wishing that he hadn’t. A short, nearly bald bloke, with dog-awful breath and long bony fingers, was smiling up at him… no leering like a predator would be a more apt description.

“Um, ’ello.”

“My, you are quite special, aren’t you? Your eyes are striking. And your hair is so... Is it real? 

“Yeah, it’s me own hair. See?" George grabbed a clump and pulled; fuck he hated this daft game. 

"Yes, indeed. So very thick and clean. My apologies for being so bold, but are you with anyone?”

"I’m with with those fellas over there.” George nodded in the direction of Neil, Mal and Brian huddled together deep in conversation.

The geezer turned to looked and coughed. “Ah, I’m being unclear. Bad habit, I’m afraid. No, what I mean is… are you attached?”

“Attached to what?”

Out of nowhere, Ringo suddenly slid up and appeared by George’s side. He winked at his mate and grabbed Harrison's right hand, intertwining their fingers.

“Is this brute bothering you, muffin? Can’t leave your delectable tidbits alone for one minute, can I? Trying to nick my boyfriend then, Mister? I’ve heard things about you New Zealander blokes… cagey lot of convicts and rapists, all of ya.”

“No, no. That's Australians. You misunderstand my intentions, young man. If I’d known that…”

“Well, you know now, don’t you? Off with ya… go on. Shoo!” As the man left, flushed from embarrassment, Ringo snapped his fingers with flair and wiggled his arse.

“Yer boyfriend, eh? When were ya gonna tell me.”

“Sshhh, it’s a secret. And watch yer back, son. There’s Kiwi poofters on the prowl ‘ere. Packs of ‘em. Lions and tigers and queers... Oh my!" Ringo lifted up both his ring-laden hands and curled them like cat claws, nearly choking with laughter in the middle of his mock roar. "One pinched me bum over by that table. Nearly lost me dear drink.” Ringo tossed back a gulp with a smirk. “Choice booze though. Spare a fag?”

George pulled out his pack, and handed Ringo a cigarette.

“Ta for, um… defending me virtue, Ritch. You’re a real noble gent, you are.”

“Anything for you, Georgie boy. Oh, look… billiards! Time to pilfer these codgers' pockets. Tara, peaches!” 

“Peaches?” George cocked his head with a lop-sided grin and then look about for a place to hide. 

Feeling damned proud of his chances for the club’s next election, and terribly tipsy at this point, Craig wobbled over to the fireplace and cozied up next to George, who was now leaning on the mantle, trying to disappear into the stonework, waiting for the whole dull farce to be fucking over. 

“G’dday, lad. George, isn’t it?”

“Huh? No, I’m Neil. George is over there.”

“Oh! You mean the young man playing billiards over there with Mr. Stanton and your friend, Dingo? My apologies. You all do look alike, you know. I’m Craig. Craig Baker.”

“Yes, I know. We met earlier.” George was trying to stay polite, but his patience was wearing dangerously thin.

“Of course! Can I just say what a handsome young man you are, Neil… tall and dark and quite strapping. Yes, indeed. Would you care for another brandy?”

“No thanks.”

“Oh come now. Drink up! It’s a celebration! Here…” Craig’s hospitality was far more cultivated than his coordination. The glass of dark liquor fell out of his fingers and spilled all over the front of George’s grey suit trousers, staining his crotch in a most unfortunate pattern.

“Great. Now me bloody shitty night is complete.” Rolling his eyes, George starting wiping away at the mess.

“Dear! Let me get that for you, Neil. Here, I’ve got a handkerchief. If I just dab a bit more here… hold still now!”

“Stay the fuck away from me balls!”

Without thinking, acting only on Scouser street smarts and a lifetime of barnies with his older brothers, George clocked Craig in the face with a stiff punch. Baker dropped like dead weight onto the posh oriental carpet.

Thud.

~~~~

After a while, John couldn’t really judge how long he’d been lying there on his back, shackled to the bedframe. He heard James leave and reenter the room at least twice, but the master never said a word or acknowledged him in any way. Fuck, he was bloody parched. He licked his dry lips, obsessing over the fact that a glass of cold water might still be on the side table by the bed.

Then John felt a weight climb onto the mattress, straddling his chest. James must be on his knees, hovering over him. He heard a belt unbuckle, then the distinct sound of a zipper unzip, then the recognizable clink of a water glass. He waited, finally flinching in surprise when a drop of cool water splashed down onto his lips.

Then another dribble of water, followed by another. 

He opened his mouth and ran his tongue over his lips again, trying to lap up the drops of drink, when he felt the moist head of James’ prick press against his lower lip. A steady trickle of coolness flowed down and over the warm, pulsing knob, as James pushed his cock head in a fraction and then pulled out.

“Thirsty, luv?”

“Yes. Please, James. Please.”

“You’re so fucking beautiful when you beg. Beg a bit more for me, dove.”

“Please… shit, please fuck me, James. I need your wet cock down my throat. Please, James.”

“So incredibly beautiful.”

Paul pinned John down by his hair and impaled John’s willing mouth viciously for a few moments before pulling out and lifting his body up on all fours, letting his prick dangle over John’s face, just out of reach. While John caught his breath and strained his neck to find him, Paul grabbed a firm hold of himself and tossed hard, until pearly globs of precum squeezed out. Then he started the tease again, dropping his hips down every so often to slap his dripping flesh across John’s cheeks before stuffing himself down John’s throat and suddenly pulling back, just out of reach… again and again. As he choked and coughed and struggled for air, John’s cock grew rock hard. Paul reached back and tightened the ring, ensnaring his heat; soon they could start the main event of this evening’s play.

“Open more.”

John complied immediately, his mouth stretched wide and twitching with expectation. Still perched on his knees, wanking off ferociously, beads of sweat dripping down from his disheveled bangs, Paul pressed his swollen head against the soft center crook of John’s lower lip. A guttural cry escaped from his lungs as he exploded into John’s waiting mouth; a few spurts of stickiness missed the mark and sprayed across John’s face as Paul lurched forward and buckled and then exhaled sharply with a raspy groan. He took a moment to catch his breath, and patted John’s stomach fondly before he spoke.

“That’s right, swallow. Here… do you want a bit more water, sweetheart?” Paul held the glass up to John’s lips. 

“Yes. Thank… you, James.”

“Good. Finish it all, baby. There we are.” After John had sucked the last bits of cool water down gratefully, Paul climbed off him, placed the empty glass on the floor and scooped another object out of his bag… his last minute sex shop purchase.

“Now open up your gorgeous mouth one more time.” 

John licked his lips. Shit.

Paul pushed the ball gag in firmly, wrapped the ties around John’s head and knotted the cloth snug.

“No more talk, Johnny. S’time for your beautiful body to beg.” Hidden behind the blindfold, John’s eyes shut tight at the ripping rush of desire that verged on sheer panic. He reminded himself to breathe through his nose as his mouth adjusted to the gag ball. Fuck, he was painfully, brutally hard.

Without another word, Paul planted a teasing, fleeting butterfly kiss on the throbbing head of John’s cock, hopped off the mattress and strolled into the loo, whistling. After a few splashes of fresh water on his face, he grabbed the bottle he’d purchased in Amsterdam and slowly padded back over to his shackled, blindfolded, gagged lover; his torso dotted with pools of perspiration, John was panting quietly in shallow breaths against the muzzle. Paul checked his watch; there should be plenty of time. Brilliant.

After a few lingering seconds spent drinking in the sight of John’s trembling, tethered shivers of expectation, he smoothed a thin film of Dekker’s imported potion down and then up the length of John’s raging hard on. Immediately McCartney walked back to the bath sink and washed his hands. He quickly lathered up a soft washrag with an overly generous amount of warm soapy suds, before returning to the bedroom. And then he waited. Paul glanced down at his watch, black pupils fixed on the sweep of the second hand, until his attention was drawn to movement on the bed.

John was moaning, as Paul knew would happen right off. Then, suddenly, he started thrashing against his restraints, straining and falling back in irregular waves. The second hand on Paul’s wristwatch seemed to move in agonizing slow motion. Wait, he told himself. He can take a bit more. When John started screaming against the gag, twisting even harder in agony, Paul let his raised forearm go slack and marched quickly over to his side.

“Sshhh.” He completely wiped off the lotion with the soapy rag, kissing John’s damp hair. “S’all gone now. There’ll just be some nice tingling for a while.” John’s muffled howling dampened to soft whimpers, and he collapsed, sucking in as much air as possible through his nostrils. Paul brushed away the streams of tears flowing out from beneath the blindfold and down his cheeks.

“Hush now. Don’t cry, sweetheart. You did very well. I’m pleased.”

Paul was pretty sure that John yelled something like, “Fuck off!” through the ball gag, but he decided to let it pass. It was time for his talented hands to get to work. Time to push John closer to the edge of the cliff.

Slowly and very lightly, Paul’s fingers moved in teasing, random patterns over the pale, freckled muscles and the hypersensitive skin of John’s inner thighs. John struggled to buck his hips against anything, desperate to be touched. The restraints were too tight; the master had complete control over his body. With deliberate slowness, Paul gradually moved his attention to John’s agonizing erection. Using only his curled palms, Paul stroked up the length of John’s cock in ripples of fluttering, barely perceptible caresses. Then he pulled his hands away, and started all over at the thick base again. Up, barely touching John’s hot, velvety skin… off, and then back down to start at the base again. It was excruciating… just enough teasing touch to further enflame John’s frenzied need for an orgasm, but not enough friction to get him off. Over, and over, and over. John began to thrash about uselessly again, this time a helpless slave to Paul’s skilled, resolved hands.

“You like this, don’t you?”

A muffled request for release sounded more like a ferocious growl. Paul wanted him begging, not demanding. This would take a bit more time.

“You’ll surrender… completely. I’m patient, Johnny.”

Paul’s hands started again with their feather lite, upward strokes, while the cock ring and leather extender helped inhibit John’s building orgasm. He needed to explode and he fucking couldn’t… stuck there on the verge of intense, overwhelming pleasure with no release possible… teetering on the precipice of collapse with no chance to fall over.

No release until James allowed him to come.

John almost fucking blacked out.

He was soaked in sweat and exhausted and defeated. He was James’ toy, writhing helplessly under his cruel, delicious touch. At last, he melted and groaned in total subservience. Paul sighed with a smile. Sensing John’s complete submission, Paul finally, gradually, began to squeeze as he stroked, offering John the friction he needed. Paul knew it would take a few more moments; edging was a delicious torture that required stamina and discipline. Paul loosened the cock ring’s tight hold, unsnapped one of the fasteners on the leather ball strap and stroked harder with both hands.

“There you go, Johnny. You’ve earned it. Come for me, pet.”

It didn’t take long as long as Paul had hoped; John’s balls pulled up and in as high as they could against the resistance of the extender strap. He entire body tensed up in preparation, shivering. Reading John’s body, Paul slowly and steadily pulled the silver plug out by its pull ring, a fraction of an inch at a time. With a final, gagged wail, spurts of semen shot out in convulsions over Lennon’s glistening stomach; his blinding orgasm seemed to last minutes rather than seconds. After the last salty gob dribbled out of his slit and dripped down onto his hipbone, John lay completely still, paralyzed with aching satisfaction.

“Beautiful. So fucking beautiful.” Paul reached forward and combed back the sopping clumps of auburn hair from John’s forehead with his slicked fingers.

All of a sudden, John started to sob, deeply. Paul untied the gag and tenderly pulled the ball out of his mouth as John gasped and slobbered for oxygen like a drowning man.

“J-James?”

“I’m here, Johnny. You’re mine. I’ll always take care of you. Relax.”

“Always?” He could barely get the word out.

“Yes, always and forever. Whenever you need me. Time for sleep, dove.” 

After removing the blindfold and releasing the wrist cuffs, Paul raised himself up off the mattress.

“You’re leaving?” Delirious and drained and covered in goose bumps, John coughed.

“Yes, I’m leaving now… but I’m always here, even when you think I’m not. Remember?”

“Yes, James.” John couldn’t keep his eyes open, as the weight of unbearable, biblical exhaustion pressed down on his chest. Returning from the loo with the key, Paul unlocked the collar and untied the last of the restraints, tucking his naked, spent lover under the fluffy bed covers. John instinctively curled himself into a fetal ball. Smiling with a kiss to his temple, Paul then repacked James’ equipment and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

~~~~

Paul sat in the main room of the suite, reading a newspaper and sipping on another glass of port, his sock-clad feet perched on the low table. His necktie was loose and his hair was a bit of a mess, but otherwise no one would have known James had been there. It was bloody well late; the lads should be home any moment, wherever home was these days. In less than ten minutes, his band mates were back. George looked furious; Ringo just appeared bladdered.

“How was the posh club-b-b?” Paul asked with a mischievous grin, letting the final consonant reverberate off his relaxed, satisfied lips.

“You’re a right fucker, McCartney. I’ll get you back for that, you bloody prat!”

“Oi, quiet. John’s fucking sleeping then.” Paul whispered, for no reason really; shit, a fucking atomic explosion wouldn’t wake John from his post-orgasm coma. “Sounds like our Georgie had a grand old time, eh Ritch?”

“Don’t mind him, Paul. He’s just upset that I got more booze from the poofter codgers. Ya didn’t swing yer hips enough, ya cock tease!” Ringo yelled at George’s back and winked.

“What’s wrong with your trousers there, Georgie?”

“I had such a blast at your club, McCartney… the one you never bloody showed up to… that I pissed meself with happiness. What do you fuckin’ think? That queer mayor's bloke, Baker, dumped a bloody drink all over me trying to get his nancy paws in me pants.” George threw his wrinkled suit jacket at Paul’s head and stormed off to his room, ready to end the night, ready to go the fuck home.

Covering his mouth with his fist, Paul started to cry from laughing much too hard. He was daft giddy from the long, exhausting night. James took a lot of energy.

With a belch, Ringo sank in the sofa next to him.

“Our George was getting all the pansies’ attention at that posh club. Blimey, that lad has one hell of a right hook! Knocked Baker right on his poof arse. S’good that we’re leaving wherever the fuck this is tomorrow.”

Paul couldn’t talk. He was paralyzed with snorts.

“How was your night, Paul?”

McCartney finally caught his breath and garbled, “Typical.”

~~~~

After everyone had gone to bed, Paul wandered back to the shared bedroom, not bothering to turn on a lamp. Enough light from the city was streaming in through the window sheers for him to make his way well enough. He stripped down to his undershirt and boxers and slipped in next to John under the covers, spooning him from behind. John stirred, but didn’t move.

“Paul?”

“Yeah. S’me, luv.”

“Hi.” 

He couldn’t see it, but Paul could hear and feel John’s body oozing with love.

“Hi.”

“Thank you.” John’s well-fucked, groggy voice was as smooth and thick as honey. Chuckling, Paul nuzzled his face against the warm skin between John’s shoulder blades.

“My pleasure, Johnny. S’ides, I expect you’ll be punishing my arse hard and raw once you’ve recovered.”

With his eyes closed in foggy bliss, John just grinned.

“Count on it, dove.”

 

**THE END**


End file.
